


Death Comes

by Candybara



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub, Fingering, Fluffy Ending, Gender-neutral Reader, Marking, Masochism, One Shot, Other, Porn, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Sadism, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candybara/pseuds/Candybara
Summary: Death’s name is Gabriel and the mask he wears never really comes off.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Two things:
> 
> 1) Within the course of about a month I've completely descended into Overwatch hell, please do not save me for I am happy here 2) I'm really fucking thirsty for Reaper and his edginess has rubbed off on me just a bit
> 
> Also I'm a kinky piece of shit ENJOY

Every night you let death take you behind closed doors.

You can’t say you’re ever calm when you watch your evenings slowly dwindle into smoke and ash, but it isn’t panic that envelops you as you’re touched, kissed. You don't have to dig deep to derive pleasure from it, or even justify the lack of affection behind every encounter, and when the sun rises again you don’t bother hiding the marks that litter your flesh, blossoming into color through the rawness of carnality alone. You wear them like a badge of honor, even though you know they don’t mean anything outside of sadistic appeal.

Death roams your body with familiarity, mapping out the edges of your frame like you’renothing more than a matrix of skin, painted under rough lips and fingertips. You’re always chasing the chills that dapple your spine with a shudder, tracing the prickle of your scalp with the angle of your neck. You’re always arching into the hand that tightens in your hair and allowing its grip to draw you in, to rile up the desire the sleeps behind your eyes.

The stars beyond your windowpanes drip into galaxies, but all that fills your lungs is a swarm of midnight. It doesn’t sting when you breathe in the cool and wait for your core to churn it into heat, because you've learned that sometimes even ice is enough to fuel a fire.

Death plagues your senses with want and desperation, and the thrill of it pulses through you endlessly, like an aphrodisiac running rampant through your veins. Love is no more intoxicating than the bonds of lust, and you know that succumbing to desire is hardly a step up from flirting with demise, but you do it anyway because it feels too good to think twice about.

Death’s name is Gabriel and the mask he wears never really comes off.

It’s not as though there’s always that defining skull slate cloaking his expression under the familiarity of an angular disguise, but even on the occasions during which he lets your eager gaze trace the hard lines of his face, sculpted by inky shadows and contoured by pale moonlight, there’s still pretense lingering behind the veiled glint in his eyes.

It’s hidden in the scars that cut into his skin, in the echo of a voice too gruff to be entirely unbroken. It’s hidden in the way he looks at you, like he doesn’t really care even though you’re still enough to keep him coming back for more. It’s hidden in the way he’s tangible, but also kind of not. He’s far from opaque, but he doesn’t allow you to see through him. He makes sure you feel him, but he doesn’t show you how he feels. He’s fleeting. He’s untethered.

Then again, he’s not really dead, and he’s not really living, but his hands are on you and his fingers are cold and there’s truly no denying that he makes you feel alive.

You drag your tongue through the seam of your lips and let a shaky moan crawl up the back of your throat, voice leaking out half-muffled by the crumple of cotton bedding pressed against your face. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth and your thighs are parted, hips raised high in the air, though at this point most of your weight is braced against your forearms. Gabriel had started you on your hands and knees, but right now you can’t find the strength to balance over your palms, not when he’s touching you the way he is.

You're spread completely bare, aside from the thin sheen of sweat that glosses your skin. There are flames licking at your core, the product of your own arousal sparking a fever in your blood, one that threatens to burn you alive. You can hardly think, can hardly breathe, and your legs are shaking through the intensity of it all, because being stretched around two thick fingers certainly isn't helping you piece together the ragged shreds of your composure that are still clinging to your frame.

Gabriel’s hand pumps against you and you have to bite back a cascade of whimpers every time you feel his knuckles graze your inner walls, calloused enough to scrape, yet slick enough to glide. His opposite palm settles between your shoulder blades, and it’s only when his weight shifts to push you down against the mattress that you fail to stop a gasp from slipping past your lips. He’s rougher than you’d prefer, but you can’t find it in you to care when you’re this busy panting into the sheets.

It’s almost too much when Gabriel curls into you, fingers pressing hot as they beckon against the silky lining of your flesh. You’re wetter than you’d ever care to admit, and it’s beginning to feel like liquid fire in your veins, even as you shudder and lust for more. There’s an obscene amount of heat pouring through the pit of your stomach, and it’s not like you’re really estranged from shame anyway, but the sensation of it is still enough that you’re almost flustered just by knowing how much the pleasure that’s storming between your thighs is making you drip with desire.

Your hips jolt as the stimulation in your core gains traction and Gabriel purrs his approval at the way you quiver under his touch, and so he crooks his fingers again and this time you hear your own voice break as you cry out, grasping at the sheets by your side. You’re agonizingly close and you’re cursing under your breath as you ache for release, but then all at once the gratification dissipates and you choke on near bliss because the contact is gone and the friction is gone and you realize that you’re empty, and you find that it hurts less to bite into your lip than it does to focus on the way the loss throbs.

You’re relieved that it’s not long before Gabriel’s hand finds the curve of your shoulder, though you can’t help but wince at the strength of his grip, at the hard press of his fingers against your skin. He wastes no time flipping you onto your back, and soon you feel the mattress dip under his weight, his eyes all but blazing with hunger as he shifts to hover over you. His palms come down rough and there’s anticipation thundering within the cages of your chest as he shoves your legs apart, and you can hear your heart pounding against the base of your throat as he lines up his hips, and then your breath hitches around a shallow moan because oh god, he’s _pushing._

It feels like a demand when he fills you, and there’s no restraint on your part but his resolve still feels hot, heavy, uncompromising, and you’re thankful that you’re already loose because he doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s moving, capturing a pace so relentless it rocks your bed against the wall. You whimper through closed lips as he angles into you, and when he outright growls through the contact it has you whining beneath him.

His expression vaguely resembles one of pleasure, and you can’t help but admire the way his mouth hangs slightly open, the way his eyes are screwed shut and his brow is furrowed with focus. He doesn’t flush, nor does he pant, but your stomach still flips as you’re struck with the heat of knowing that you’re doing something to him, that you’re making him _feel_.

You want to make him feel more.

Gabriel thrusts into you hard and your breath hitches around a gasp, your hands flying to his forearms for stability. Your back arches up off the mattress as you moan and you vaguely feel yourself leaking, quivering around the stretch of your entrance. Your core rages with a maelstrom of stimulation, hot and wet and tempestuous, and you shudder as the sensation of it blazes through you. You’re all need and desire as your fingertips curl into Gabriel’s skin, and then he stops.

Your lips part for air and you find that you’re struggling to clear your vision. You’re sure that you look about as pathetic as you feel in your desperation, cheeks bright, gaze blurry and half-lidded. You’re not above begging, particularly not when you’re this high on arousal, but that all turns arbitrary because you’re starting to catch the edges of Gabriel’s icy glare, and one by one your pleas promptly die on your tongue.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, and you swallow thickly as he scowls down at you. His gaze is harsh and unyielding, and damn near irate enough to sear daggers into your flesh, because it’s not as though he hasn’t told you this before. It’s not often that you forget, but it still makes your blood run cold whenever you find that he has to remind you.

“I thought I made it clear that I’m not fucking you for _your_ pleasure,” he growls, and you say nothing as you peel your fingers away from his forearms, instead opting to cling to the frame of your headboard. Gabriel takes another moment to stare you down, and you’re half expecting to be reprimanded for your absentmindedness, but he seems satisfied enough with the displacement of your hands because doesn’t ask for an apology before he’s pounding into you again.

His weight presses forward and you feel your hips roll up off the mattress as he leans into you, his body now shadowing you over almost entirely. His head dips down and you whimper when he moans deep in his chest, dragging the edges of his teeth down the line of your throat. His mouth latches onto your pulse point and you jolt under the sweep of his tongue, choking back a cry as he bites and sucks along the surface of your skin.

He’s still grinding against you and you’re trying your best to pin your focus on the warmth that’s pooling in the pit of your stomach, on the way his shaft is throbbing between your inner walls, on the way his lips are branding heat into your flesh, and somehow it enables you to better pour your effort into teaching yourself how to breathe properly. Then Gabriel bares his teeth against your nipple and you let out a sharp whine, toes furling into your sheets as the friction of it skyrockets into bliss.

You’re already crumbling like sand under his palms, but it’s not enough and it’s never enough, not even when your skin prickles at the sensation of his fingers replacing his lips. His touch slides up your front and there’s a twinge of suspense in your veins as his hands curl around the arc of your neck, and you know what’s coming and you want what’s coming, but you’re impatient so you provoke him purposely this time.

You draw your legs up and wrap them around Gabriel’s waist, and it’s not very far over onto the rebellious side but it serves the purpose of holding his body against your own for as long as you can, pulling him close before you feel him still and growl disapprovingly, kneeling upright to pry your thighs off of him and glower down at you again.

“Don’t try to turn this into something it’s not.” His voice is thicker, huskier this time, and the echo of it only serves to send a spasm of warmth around the stretch of your entrance. He clicks his tongue when he feels it but he doesn’t really resent your masochism, even if it means that punishment is only pleasure under the guise of a double-edged sword. Still, you shiver when his eyes turn dark and his lips curl into a scowl, for it’s an expression different from his usual stoicism. He’s miffed.

“Either you play by my rules, or I find a new _toy_ ,” he spits, and that’s when the dread really starts to sink in. It’s an empty threat, you think, then you realize it’s not because it wouldn’t hurt you so much if it were. The venom of his words drips off his tongue and sinks into the pit of your stomach, and it fills your mouth with something foul, making you feel like bitterness is all you know.

You start to wonder when exactly you’d grown to depend on him, if you can even call it a dependence. In some ways you thrive off of trusting that he’ll show up again, not caring that he’s only using you and that his ambivalence only aches when you think about wanting him. But you lay still and abide by his rules because company is company, and even during the hottest hours of the day you find yourself missing him in all his coldness.

You don’t think you love him, but the thought of losing him makes your eyes wet with something a little too sentimental for your liking.

“…I understand.”

Your voice is shaky and you’re fighting back tears and winning, but only barely. Gabriel clicks his tongue again and he must know by now that you’ve got stock in whatever your relationship with him is, because he’s just given you an escape and you’ve rejected it. You worry that he’ll leave anyway, reclaim his mask and swirl away, but he doesn’t. Instead he steals your breath and makes it his.

He doesn’t bear down on you completely, but you feel the pressure in your core increase as his palms level flush against your throat and he rams into you, driving his hips hard and fast like he’s desperate and maybe he is because his groans are rattling through him and you can’t stop the heat of it from resonating down your spine. Your chest quakes as the air in your lungs flows out of you in wisps, and you’re certain that when all is through you’ll be left with a ring of bruises around your neck but you don’t care, you don’t care and you want to be broken more than ever.

You’re chasing your release down a beaten path, and it’s hard to hold back knowing full well that Gabriel won’t hesitate to fuck you right through your climax if you’re to let yourself unravel now, but he doesn’t give you much of a choice one way or another because you’re far past the point of no return.

You’re coming by the time his grip slackens just enough for you to take a short gasp, and it’s the last push that’s needed to make your body sing out in gratification. Heat floods through you like a tidal wave and crashes against the rocks of your restraint, and you grasp at the edges of your headboard so hard you think the wood might splinter as you ride out your orgasm. It’s not long before Gabriel’s gone too and you’re feeling him shudder and curse under his breath, grunting with the force of a man punched in the gut as his hips lurch and then roll to a stop.

There’s a familiar, shifting warmth inside you as he spills, and he moans through it all, panting something fierce and heavy. Your frame falls slack against the sheets and the whimpers leaking out of you are soft, sated, almost as fluid as the slick dripping down the insides of your thighs. Your lashes flutter against your cheeks and you feel yourself wince as Gabriel slides out of you, now all too aware of the soreness searing your limbs with a dull ache. It’s nice, in a contenting sort of way. You give a slow sigh let your eyes fall shut.

“You’re a mess,” Gabriel declares out of nowhere, and you glance up to find him wrinkling his nose as he looks to the space between your legs. You can’t entirely disagree as you lie in your sticky, disheveled state, but you feel yourself frown at his words regardless.

“Okay…?”

Gabriel stands and turns away, sweeping up his discarded clothes seemingly without a second thought, and against your better judgment you watch him as he dresses himself. Undershirt, pants. Belt, another belt. Boots. Padded armor. Then he dons his cloak, his gauntlets, and lastly his mask, and by that point you don’t even recognize him anymore. He looks more menacing than ever when he embraces his persona and becomes death, becomes Reaper. But it’s still him, or so you think.

You start when his hood twists towards you, and you know he’s looking at you with those cold, grim eyes, but you can’t see them behind the valleys in his bony mask. He turns away again and you don’t even hear him as he moves, like his body is gliding through the air. You shift onto your side and stare at the wall, trying not to think about how he’ll be gone soon, how he’ll leave through an open window without a trace, like he was never with you in the first place. But he was with you, and you’ll know for sure in the morning when you can barely walk or deny it from yourself.

“Here.”

A low voice echoes through the room, and you look up in time to see a washcloth fall by your side. The fabric is warm and a bit damp, and you run your fingers over the soft cotton, not sure how to feel when you scan the room for Gabriel and he’s not there. Your curtains flutter through a gentle breeze and the towel in your hands makes you feel light, and for once you aren’t empty.

For once, you smile.


End file.
